I never promised you a June garden

IMG_5805
My cousin Katy sent me new lipsticks!! I was really just thinking, I should go buy me a lipstick. Any time I buy a new one, I think THIS will be the color for me. THIS will be my signature color, and I'll wonder how I got along without it. I once read an article about a woman whose mother had gone the writer's whole life wearing one shade of Revlon pink lipstick, and I enjoyed that article so much I went out and looked for said shade. It was a total frosty, astronaut's wife shade, natch.

So, today maybe I will actually put on some makeup so I can try my new shades. I have, in fact, worn makeup every day, as that same cousin Katy was the one who was determined to shower and dress every day when she had tragedy, and she is my muse for this sort of thing.

I will not call her an inspiration. "You know your life's in the shitter when someone tells you you're their inspiration," she said.

And yes, I DO have a cousin named Katie and another named Katy. I never said it's be easy to read this blog. I never promised you a June garden.

IMG_5804

At work, on Friday, they had a little surprise for us where they had us take a break and listen to music and eat cupcakes, as we'd all been working like pooches lately. It was nice. Yesterday, The Guy Who Sits Next To Me was all, "June, is that your…cupcake? In a bowl?"

"It was crumbly," I said.

"Nothing says breakup like a five-day-old cupcake in a bowl," he told me, returning to his work. He's probably right. I remember a breakup in 1992, and my friend Gertrude came to my house one evening. I'd gotten out of work at 5:00, and then in all my work clothes had laid face-down on the floor of my apartment, where she found me at, like, 7:00.

SHE WAS SO MAD. "How can you be ON THE FLOOR in your WORK clothes?" she snapped. I mean, I remember her divorce, and going over there with a sunflower at 11:00 in the morning and she was in pajamas and her eyelids were swollen to Guam. It was the WORK CLOTHES part that annoyed her. Even in all her sadness, she still woulda been organized enough to change into sweats and THEN hurled herself onto the floor.

I say that removes, like, 72% of the drama.

Anyway.

When I move back to my house, I will not own a TV or a couch. We both got rid of a ton of stuff, because we were convinced we'd live together forever. You know what they say: If you want to make god laugh, tell her your plans.

The point is, I think I can still get movies on my computer, right? Because I have a whole entire giant list of girl movies Ima watch and sob over like an idiot. I do not have to dress up for work, so the drama of being in a suit jacket will be missing. So far, here is my girl list of movies:

Steel Magnolias

Fried Green Tomatoes

Out of Africa

Sleepless in Seattle

The Way We Were

Coocoo for Cocoa Cock

Wait. How'd that one get in there?

At least I have a plan. I also liked what one of you said in the comments, how you had a friend who was determined to learn a new skill while she was recovering from heartache, and in the end that skill became her career. See. A well-placed hooker joke would KILL right here.

The point is, Ima finally work on making a book from this blog. Every night, after work, I will come home and peruse my blog. You all sent me, MONTHS ago, passages you liked, so I'll look at all those, which will probably bore the crap out of me because usually I read my own blog and go, How do people read this? Then every once in awhile I crack myself the hell up. I found not one but two hilarious Charles Nelson Riley neckerchief jokes once, several years apart, when I was perusing this blog. See what you have to look forward to if I make a book?

Okay, I have to go to work. We have this group meeting at 9 each morning, where we're supposed to say what our priority that day is, but everyone makes it this huge to-do list so the bosses know they're SO BUSY OH MY GOD, and at the end of it somehow I got roped into reading an inspirational quote each day. You can imagine how inspirational I am right now. Mostly now it's, like, I got yer quote, right here.

Talk at you.

JOOOOOOOOB

 

Advertisements

Total Whine

Photo on 9-29-15 at 7.51 AM #4
The other day I was at Lowe's, because every time you move you have to go to Lowe's, it's the law. Anyway, across the street from Lowe's is this store called Total Wine, which Ned calls Totally Wine, and it's things like this that stick with you when you're trying to forget someone.

Marvin always sang, "Don't let your son go down on me" when that Elton John song came on, and now I can't think of the lyrics any other way. Also, if someone had a car hitched up to a camper, he'd always say, "Look how close that car is following that camper," and now I find myself making that same stupid joke.

So I went to Totally Wine, which I never do, but I was in the neighborhood so why not. Turns out it's a pain in the ass to go to Totally Wine on a Saturday. You had all kinds of pretentious people buying cases of wine and cases of beer, except each beer was a different kind, so to ring it up they had to take each bottle out and wave the wand over it. I was certainly not visualizing any people with beer bottles sticking out their asses or anything.

The point is, I selected two bottles, one of which bragged that it had a "wet chalk" aroma, and that was so weird I had to buy it. I haven't tried that one yet, although Ned pointed out that wet chalk is pretty much Milk of Magnesia, which, mmmmmmm!

But last night I was pouring some of the other bottle I bought, and I read the back to Ned. "It has a ripe banana finish," I told him. All that what-does-the-wine smell like bullshit pisses me off. Just sell me hard chardonnay for women who want to get drunk fast.

"Drink it as an aperitif, or with seafood, or when your heart is broken and you just want to get fucked up," I read to Ned as I put it back in the refridge.

"I just rolled the recycling out to the curb today," he told me. "There's a month worth of broken-heart drinking in there. I could barely move the thing, it was so full of beer bottles."

So we're both doing great.

IMG_5734 IMG_5742
I don't even KNOW how I'm gonna live without my pets for a month. I know the cats won't give a shit, but I feel like Edsel might commit hara-kari. He loves the CRAP out of Ned, so I'm glad he has that, at least, some Ned time. You know how I'm thinking of my year here as a year abroad? I'll think of my month away from Edsel like I went on a business trip or something. I went out to do my mission work. God help whomever gets missioned from me. The June missionary treatment. "Yes, I've taken a missionary position."

Speaking of which, do you think I'll ever have sex again? Is that over for me? My grandmother was 53 when her husband died, and that was it for her. She was done. She never dated again. What if I never date again. What if I'm just Delta Dawn, wandering town aimlessly with a flower on and no action. Actshun. I wanna live. Actshun I got so much to give. I want to give it. I want to get some too.

 

I'm going to change my hair to that 'do, then wonder why I'm not getting any actshun.

I beg you to watch that video. Veeeeedeo. The people in that audience are jamming OUT. Also, those twinkling lights aren't annoying at all, like the crowd at Totally Wine. Oh! And her dance during the solo! You'll be blown away.

What if I never have sex again, and all I do is watch Alicia Bridges videos for the rest of time.

How long would you give it to start dating again. I've asked a few friends, and I have gotten answers ranging from "date immediately" to "wait four years." That one was Griff. He pointed out that when you're not dating, you can watch all the sports you want. So, incentive.

I figure I should wait till the thought of NED dating doesn't make me hurl. So, like, I'll know I'm over him a little. I keep picturing spring. The other night I was dreaming that Ned and I were getting married. It was our wedding day, and apple blossoms were falling on me, just like they did in his courtyard at his old place.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017eea789f1c970d-pi

Then I woke up. You can imagine how delighted I was to wake up.

Sigh.

Awakedly,

Joooooooooooooon

God giggles at June

"I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life," Ned just said. I assured him he is not. "Who else am I gonna meet that's 50 and just as immature as me? Everyone else is grown up," he said.

He has a point there. It's probably a sign from god that we should both tap 23-year-olds next. Works for me.

I've got, I don't know, 50 boxes up in here, and every time Tallulah peers out from behind one I ask her if she's doing her boxer impression. Someone is completely over me. I move to Kayeeeee's house at the end of this week, and the dogs are staying here, but there are several times over the course of the month that Ned will be gone for work, so Ima come back and dog sit on those nights. I'm dog-sitting my own dogs. And cats.

No advice, please. This was the best plan I could come up with so stop with "This isn't advice, but you should really…"

The idea of living a whole month without pets is just weird. I've never done that before since, I think, birth. I even sneaked a pet bunny into my dorm room. Kayeee's cat died six months ago, and her next plan is to get two senior dogs, and I don't mean señor dogs or even dogs on spring break. I told her this week would be an EXCELLENT time to do that, before she goes, and then I will raise them till she returns from her trip.

She did not concur. I also suggested a puppy might be nice, and I could break it in, because look how well my own dogs turned out.

She continued to not concur. Whatever with Kayeeeee.

Anyway, what's left is I have to call the cable company and the gas company and also the water company, or maybe I'm power and Ned is gas. Oh, god, I can't remember. If I were the power company, I'd totally play that "I GOT THE POWER!" song when people are on hold.

 

Maybe the phone company could be Telephone Line by ELO, which is an extremely excellent song.

 

I'm so going as ELO guy for Halloween. All I need to do is not add gel that day. Abstain from the Nair for a week.

Maybe I didn't need to listen to Telephone Line right now. Even that awful live version. Every time I get into the car, some sad song comes on, such as Knowing Me, Knowing You or Love Hurts, and it's like God is up there getting a big kick out of himself. He has a whole sad songs playlist he's ready to wow me with and he's giggling into a napkin.

Alternatively, I could stop listening to the '70s channel on my radio. Who else here has Sirius? I got it so I could listen to Howard, paid my 13 dollars a month, but then when they said no, Howard is ADDITIONAL dollars beyond the 13, I got mad and said forget it. He's only there two days a week as it is, I already pay money to hear him and now you want MORE? Fuck my boots, Sirius radio.

IMG_5767

Other than pack, I didn't do much this weekend. I went to my coworker Ryan's house after work Friday. He lives in a big old pretty house with The Other Copy Editor who used to work with me, and her husband. So the four of us ended up sitting around talking, and that was lovely, actually.

I got a few "Take a break! Come with me!" emails from people, when really what I could have used was help packing. I'm sure people with much worse stuff than a breakup can attest to how what you really need at times like this is someone to come dig in the trenches with you. I dunno. Maybe someone out there can tell us.

Like, if you've had a baby or you've gotten sick or someone has died or whatever. What's helpful and what's not? Because I didn't need to feel guilty that I couldn't "take a break," you know? It's a ton of work and it's been lonely, sad work.

I'd love to hear your tips on that, actually, so I can be more helpful next time one of my friends has tragedy.

When Ned has been around, we've started a horrible yet hilarious game called, "I hope the next person you date…" I think Ned started it.

"I hope the next person you date hates sex," said Ned.

"I hope the next person you date loves the song Total Eclipse of the Heart, and she bellows it to you regularly," I said.

"I hope the next person you date is Phil Collins."

"I hope the next person you date loves to see every Nicolas Sparks book that's been made into a film, over and over."

You have to admit that was a good one, on my part.

"I hope the next person you date has no fingers, and he has to touch you with nubs."

"I hope she has 15 kids–three of them toddlers."

"I hope he's uncircumcised."

I'll probably date a Jewish man next, go back to what's familiar. So not very likely on that one.

Anyway, I can't remember them all, but we had some good ones and I got a big kick out of our awfulness.

I gotta go. Every time I get ready to end my blog and get in the shower, Iris picks that moment to jump on my lap and purr, and then I feel guilty for dismantling her. I hope the next person Ned dates has small yappy dogs that nip. As if mine were so much more of a treat.

I hope she's really into Vera Bradley and has a french pedicure. I hope she sounds precisely like Rosie Perez.

June, mature and out.

My happy hour of need

The good news is, since I moved in here, my credit score has gone up 58 points. Fifty-eight points, dudes! My car is paid off, and two of my three credit cards are at zero. So that's a plus.

On the other hand, I'm a year older with nothing to show for it but four pets and some disturbing hips. Seriously. When did these things just spread out and start enjoying themselves? It's like they said, "That organ is driving me crazy. Let's go out and stretch our legs."

It's probably not helping that I haven't worked out since September 12, when all the shit hit the fan. What's today? The 24th? Good lord. That's not much time. I have lots of agony before me. Spread out before me. Like my hips.

Today is a rainy, dark kind of a day. The huge tree outside my window is just starting to change colors. IMG_5771
I'd been looking forward to watching it get all brilliant and pretty when I came in here every day to write. I will have lived here just exactly one year, to the day, when I go. I have to keep reminding myself, year abroad. It was a year abroad. You were abroad.

Like my hips.

I lived for one summer in London, when I was 25, and I lived during that time in a room, one single room, with two other women. How we didn't kill each other is a mystery. We had the only room with a balcony, and we were in the corner, so score. I know they got annoyed with me because I found at a flea market this little ankle bracelet made entirely of these teensy Indian bells, so when I got up in the morning I'd CHING down from my bunk bed and CHING down to the shower. I'd also CHING around really early a few days a week to put on running clothes then CHING! back to our room and in general they wanted to ching me into a river.

The point is, I think fondly of that room I lived in. Maybe I'll be able to think of my year in this house as a fond memory one day, and not something that rips out my innards. The good news is, it's not on my way to or from anywhere, so I won't have to pass it unless I feel particularly stalky one day. There's one stretch of busy road that if I crane my neck and get into an accident, I can see down to this house, but I plan to wear horse blinders and a dog cone when I drive down that road.

Is this Friday? Maybe I'll see if my coworkers want to go out for an ironically named happy hour. Drown your sorrows hour. My happy hour of need. Maybe we can go somewhere really dumb for happy hour and that will cheer me. Because what's more cheerful than being in a room full of people half your age and you're drunk at 5:45?

Still. Maybe I'll go. My coworkers usually cheer me. Those youthful motherfuckers. Now no one will go, because I called them youthful motherfuckers. Don't any of them have any hot dads in a midlife crisis or anything? Nothing cures your midlife crisis than a 50-year-0ld. Hot.

How long to I get to be cranky like this before you're all over me? Are you over me now? Is it like June Eeyore Gardens wrote this? I had an old boyfriend, back in like 1987, who once we hit our rough patch would call my answering machine and sigh dramatically and we called him Eeyore. My roommate Sandy and I would fall over dead laughing at his tortured messages.

"Hi. [sigh] You're not home again. [sigh] I don't, I can't even…[sigh] I guess I'll call you later."

Oh my god, we LOVED that. He eventually slept with his coworker. Sigh.

I guess I can't really blame him for the coworker thing, now that I've just spelled that relationship out on the page as I have. Oooo, I'd FORGOTTEN this part. I was in his room once and found PICTURES of her in his BED, all mussed up, and we weren't broken up yet. Oh, I was mad. He made some lame excuse and I believed him. Now I'm mad all over again. Someone's getting a terse note on Facebook today.

Okay, I'm going to work. [sigh] I guess you guys aren't home AGAIN. [sigh]

Sigh-chotically,

June

In which June starts comparing herself to Frida, which means she has really lost it

A faithful reader sent me a poem that allegedly Frida Kahlo wrote–I did not confirm that part. Here:

"leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier maché puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street."

I think Frida Kahlo broke up with and got back together with Diego Rivera 400 times. That doesn't mean I don't still love that poem.

What was so great about Diego Rivera? I mean, sure, Frida Kahlo could have sauntered on over to the waxing salon a little more often than she did, but she was sexy. Diego Rivera looks like some schlub. He looks like when your friend invites you over and her drunk uncle hits on you. Diego Rivera's that guy.

Kahlo-frida-rivera-diego-01

He kind of looks like someone who'd go over to the young girl's house on To Catch a Predator. "I'm just making some sweet tea."

Frida Kahlo looks exactly like the pictures she painted of herself. Which reminds me that yesterday at work, we were all taking a walk and discussing what our favorite Halloween costume had been in our childhood, and my one coworker, Thousandman, was answering. Another, younger coworker said, "Oh, cool. Are there any tintypes from that? Did your family commission a Rembrandt of it?"

See, that there is hilarious. "He painted a selfie in oil," I said, which was called a self-portrait because we weren't idiots then. I wonder what ancient Kardashians were like. I wonder if they were annoying through the annals of history, too, with all the self-portraits. The oilies.

"He saved the cave drawing of his Halloween costume," I said, before remembering that Thousandman is, in fact, younger than me. So.

I was talking with another coworker about how I could be even more pathetic right now. I told him about going to bed with all my clothes on, at 6 p.m., the other night."Did you keep your shoes on? That makes it much sadder."

I vowed to do that in the future. Then we discussed how I could go to bed at 6, then roll out in the morning and come to work that way. Or, even more dramatic, I could come to work in my robe.

My cousin had something awful happen to her, way more awful than a breakup with someone you still live with, which you have to admit is right up there on the awful scale. Anyway, she vowed to get up, get dressed and do her makeup every day, no matter what. I have always been inspired by that, so I guess I'll stop blopping now and get dressed and put on makeup that I can cry off later.

Self-portraitly,

Joooon. The alone Joooon. June. Now in single servings.

Aw, nuts

Lunme

Ned took this picture of Lu and me last night, while I was taking a break from packing. Whenever Ned and I start talking now, Tallulah nervously enters the room and groans. Then she walks between us and puts her paw on either one of us. I think she's worried we're gonna fight, which we haven't been, but apparently she recalls when we did. Isn't that awful? I hate that I've made my dog nervous.

I don't know why she sits with her back legs splayed like E.T., but she always has. I love that dog so much I can't even stand it. Sometimes now she even sits on my feet and looks out at Ned when he and I are talking. I know she loves him as much as she does me. He's in our pack. Of which she is the leader, who are we kidding.

Tallulah seems tough and stoic, but really she's a sensitive soul.

Speaking of sensitive souls, yesterday at work a bunch of us were on our three o'clock walk, and we were just rounding the corner to be done when I saw a little dead animal on the ground. "Oh, no!" I said, to four boys who were walking with me. "There's a dead baby animal!"

"Are you sure it's dead?" asked Austin with the funny Twitter page. He grabbed a stick and gently poked at it.

AND IT MOVED. Just like my dick.

"Oh my god!" we all chorused. A Greek chorus of editors. The poor thing was teensy, and hairless, and it was horribly, unseasonably cold yesterday. "We can't just leave it out here," said Austin, who SCOOPED IT UP WITH HIS BARE HANDS.

In unrelated news, Austin is now rabid. Don't play loud music near him.

IMG_5550
Austin and I have never seen a tree.

I just happened to have three fur collars in my car, left over from various vintage coats I've had. I moved them here last year, and this year as I was packing I thought, When the heck am I ever gonna use these collars again, with all my crafting skills? So I had them on top of the pile of stuff I was taking to Goodwill. I mean, what are the chances?

We made him a little nest, and as soon as he got into his fur collars, he opened his mouth and wriggled around. I think he thought he was back with his mom.

IMG_5757

We googled it and discovered he was a baby squirrel, and we named him Squirrelly Maclaine. I called a wildlife rehab, and one of the Alexes who leaves at 4:00 took him there, so he can rehab and get off drugs. Oh, I hope he lives. Poor little Squirrelly Maclaine. Normally they'd have had me put his little nest up in a tree, because his mom would likely come get him, but they said it was too cold and he had no fur. So.

One of the things they suggested was that I take him home overnight and try to put him in the tree today, and all I could think of was…

IMG_5756
eyeriss dreem that you bring her take-owt.

All right, I'll talk to you tomorrow, from June's emporium of pain and wildlife rescue.

June goes on a date with her ex-boyfriend Ned

When I was 11, we moved into an old, pretty house with a fireplace and an upstairs, which we didn't have in our old house, and after one month exactly, my parents got divorced and we moved out. I wonder if that's why I'm so incredibly traumatized about moving out of this house. It's a lot the same, other than the managed-to-stay-a-year part. Still.

During that time, when my parents were calling it quits, our house was filled with my mom's friends, helping her pack or just visiting. That's kind of what my house has felt like this weekend. I've had people in and out of here, bringing boxes or whatever, and it's been sort of nice. And fortunately no one has seen fit to sit barefoot on the floor and strum a mandolin while singing a tune from Godspell. (Hi, mom's friends! Heart all your hippie asses!)

(I guess now's the time to say if you didn't read Saturday's post, you are lost. That is my REWARD to the 16%. They get the guff on Saturday.)

I got a ton of boxes by going on Craigslist, which is where I'm also gonna get my anonymous sex now that I'm single. I like how when you're moving, boxes become the most important thing in your life, and then a week later, you're like, How the hell can I get rid of all these damn boxes?

I drove over to the front yard of this couple, who've just moved here from Sweden. They're in an ABBA tribute band. No, no. He works for Volvo. The wife and I flattened boxes and talked about socialism, crime, breakups, philosophy. In 20 minutes, we'd pretty much told our life stories to each other. After I left it occurred to me to text her and say, Hey, we should do something sometime, but she's already texted me, so.

IMG_5722

As I unloaded the all-Swedish boxes from the car (they can really make a box, those Swedes. Sturdy, with handles. They're great), I started talking to myself like I was the Swedish chef, just to cheer myself up.

Yorn desh box, engersh de move de floopen floo. Box box box.

SwedishChef
Honestly, by the time I was done doing that, I'd put myself in complete giggle hysterics, and am once again reminded of my grandmother saying, "Look at that child. She don't need anyone. Just sits by herself and laughs."

Anyway, eventually Ned came in, and watched me pack, and basically hated my guts. I mean, he doesn't. He's sad. And he doesn't enjoy watching me pack. "Are you still, um, going to Ira Glass?" I asked him. Ira Glass was appearing at that old movie theater we like. We've had tickets for months.

"Yeah. I thought I'd go out to dinner first. You want to go?"

I mean, I'd been dying to see Ira Glass. And it was that or lie on my bed listening to Adele all night. So I showered and started getting ready. Ironically, I was looking through my closet and found the gray skirt I tried to wear on my first date with Ned and couldn't find. I wore it last night.

IMG_5723

As I was getting ready, the doorbell rang, which always pleases the dogs, and Semi-Faithful Reader Peter sent me dog flowers! He sent me dog flowers on January 19, 2012, which was the day of my first date with Ned. He sent them again this time to cheer me. He didn't know he was sending me flowers on the day of my last date with Ned.

We went to a fancy restaurant, the one where Ned had the goddammit-good grouper that one time. "Here's to four years, sweetheart," said Ned, toasting me.

"Almost four years," I said, and we laughed at the old joke between us.

While we ate, we talked about what the most depressing movie is that we could rent while I still live in the house. I suggested Blue Valentine, which is a good one, but Ned said, "No. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind."

We looked at each other and got teary. A lot of the evening was looking at each other and getting teary. The other part was tasteless jokes about who we were gonna sleep with next. We both admitted that the idea of the other sleeping with a new person was utterly nauseating.

After, we walked over to the old theater, and when we saw its old marquee, we looked at each other and got teary again. "How can I ever come here again?" I asked Ned. "I've thought about that, too. You can have our old seat in the balcony," he said. So we agreed. That'd be my spot and he'd pick a new one so maybe we wouldn't see each other there. "You'll get there at one minute to the movie, anyway, so I bet I really can avoid you," I said.

Ira Glass was great. He was funny, he was Jewish, he was a delight. At some point without noticing it, Ned and I held hands, like we always do at that theater.

I've always hated people who say, "Today I'm marrying my best friend." Oh, shut up. Get friends outside the relationship, weirdo. But Ned really has become my best friend. It's gonna be so awful when something good happens, like I make up hilarious Swedish chef moving dialogue, and he's not the one I'm going to tell. And I knew we joked about sleeping with other people, but I can't imagine ever wanting to be near any other man again. I mean, Barry Gibb, sure, but that's a given.

Maybe it was torture to go on one last date with Ned. But I'm tortured anyway. In the immortal words from Eternal Sunshine:

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's going to be gone soon.

Joel: I know.

Clementine: What do we do?

Joel: Enjoy it.

Alone again, naturally

A week ago, Ned and I broke up. I felt like his absence on here has been remarkably conspicuous, but that's probably because I just miss Ned.

We're here in this house together, for now. My tenants have till November 15 to move out, because I could not feel more guilty about kicking them out, so I gave them 60 days. In October, I'm staying at my friend Kaye's house. So we have to slog through a few weeks in this HOUSE OF PAIN till I can go. Ned's going to keep living here.

I had so much hope when we moved in a year ago. I can't believe I'm packing and moving all over again. This house was my dream house, and this life was my dream life. Now it's gone.

I love and respect Ned. I have nothing bad to say about him. And you know the rule: I know you guys are on my side, but I won't be tolerating any anti-Ned stuff in the comments. I do not regret these four years. They've been some of the happiest times of my life.

I can't believe you can love someone as much as I love Ned, and still things still didn't work out. Love does not, in fact, conquer all.

Moving from here is going to about kill me. To muddle through that part, I'm trying to think of my year here as a year abroad. Or a really elaborate way to clean my attic.

IMG_5719

Meanwhile, I'm just trying to get through each day as best I can, which hasn't been easy. I'd like to note for the record that I have eaten almost nothing for seven days and I've lost, like, one pound. COME ON, GOD. Throw me a bone. Can a sister get one silver lining up in here?

So there it is. I asked Ned if it was okay to tell you all this, and he said he didn't care. We're mostly trying to just be in different rooms or not here at all.

I'm trying not to think of nights we sat by the fire, or on the porch listening to cicadas. I'm trying not to think of times we made out on the stairway, or looked at each other when people were over because we could not wait to be alone again. I'm trying not to think of nights we walked the dogs in this pretty neighborhood, or bought things for the house together. I'm trying not to think of the next person who will have to get a pole vault and join Ned in his new tall bed.

I hate everything.

Oh, sorry

We have a greenway near work, and one of the Alexes was walking on it when she stumbled upon a man having a time with himself. She didn't literally stumble upon him, thank god. Anyway, when she noticed him, he said, "Oh. Sorry."

Sorry! He was the perv with the polite.

"To be fair," I said, "that greenway really is lovely."

What would make you say, "Hey, I'm on a walkway, watching people power walk with hand weights like it's 1982. I simply must have myself." What? What would compel you?

Did I already tell you this, I can't remember. Not long ago we had a noon meeting, and is there anything more cruel than a noon meeting? How about a one o'clock meeting, which means you have to go to lunch at 11:45 and scream back? Anyway, we'd been served lunch at said meeting, which included Ruffles.

Because we didn't actually GET a lunch–lunch hour is time, not food–my coworker Molly and I walked the greenway after the meeting. We passed this woman in running shorts and a sports bra with no abdomen whatsoever. I mean, there was just muscle there where there should have been, well, anything else like mounds of flesh, which is what seems normal in an abdomen to me. She was almost literally abs of steel. She had a 47-pack. We're talking ridges of muscle.

"…Well. My Ruffles have ridges, anyway," said Molly, making it officially one of her best lines®.

Anyway, lots of action on the greenway lately.

IMG_5705

In other news, I had dinner with Marty and Kaye yesterday. Here's Marty, pretending all this beer was his. Who adores his own self?

IMG_5707

And here's Kaye, watching Marty adore his own self. Aaaaand we're back to self-love on the greenway. Oh, sorry.

IMG_5711

The best part of the evening is that Griff, of Thus Saith Griff, showed up with his girlfriend, who is cute. You can imagine their delight when I started capturing them on film. I am a pleasure of life.

I'm pretty sure that's all my news that's fit to print, and is anyone really printing this? Do you know what I wish I had? Is a printout of every post I ever had. But to do so would be hundreds of dollars at Kinkos or whatever. Maybe if I got everyone to take, like, a few months and print them for me at home or if they sneaked it on the printer at work, I could have a paper version of all my stupid posts. I looked into making them into a book, but hello nine million dollars. This is a lot of text, almost nine years of daily blogging.

If anyone has any ideas re this, let me know.

By the way, I've typed this entire post with a Tallulah on my lap.

Photo on 9-18-15 at 7.30 AM #2

Convenient. Don't say a word about my hair.

S-headedly,

June

Mikhail Gorbachev goes to lesbian taco

Along with 47 people named Alex at my job, there are also 15,000 men named Michael in my department. As a result, we call them all by their last names, and then anytime someone says, "Mike," I'm all, "Who?"

One of these souls is Fewks, whose last name is not spelled "Fewks," but it's close enough, and every day I try to pronounce his name in a different way. "Hello, Flucks," I'll say. "Hey, Fooux." "How was your weekend, Frooks?"

No one at work likes me.

So, poor Fewks was getting his hair cut yesterday, and somehow he and the hairdresser got on the topic of the lesbian taco place that I've told you about before. The whole town is abuzz about that place, and that owner is, like, lesbian about town. I see her out, and people flock to her, man. Her and her taco.

"Oh, that place is great," said Fewks to his hairdresser. "I mean, that's where Paul McCartney ate," he noted. It's true. A few months ago, Paul McCartney performed here, and the day he was here, my friend Kit saw him walk downtown RIGHT PAST her store, just his wife and him–is that his wife? Did he get married again after that Heather mistake? I think so.

Back when Paul McCartney was married to Heather, there was some Paul McCartney special on, and they said, "When we return, Paul sings a special song to Heather." Marvin sang, to the tune of My Love Does it Good, "My leg's made of wood."

And that's why Marvin is in hell as we speak.

Anyway, it is a well-known fact that Paul McCartney marched right over to lesbian taco and ate there, and if I were lesbian taco woman, I'd be wearing my Hey, Ladies, Ask Me About When Paul Fucking McCartney Ate At My Restaurant t-shirt.

After Fewks announced this tidbit to his hairdresser, she was unresponsive. I don't mean she was dead, which would be unfortunate because who'd finish his hair, I just mean she didn't pick up on his story.

"I mean, he's a vegetarian, but he was even able to find something good that's vegetarian there," continued Fewks, hoping to garner a response from his audience.

Still crickets. This is when he pulled out the big guns and did his Paul McCartney impression. "Oy, I'm Sir Paul. Blimey, what a delicious taco."

I mean, I heard the impression upon the retelling of this incident. I can assure you I'd have been Easter Island as well, hearing that thing.

It was sometime after the Liverpool accent did not go down that it hit Fewks like a jet, JET, oooOOoooo, that his hairdresser?

Did not know who the fuck Paul McCartney was. It'd be like trying to tell me a cute story about a sports figure or a world leader. Hey, did you hear about when Mikhail Gorbachev went to lesbian taco? "WHO? Wait, is he one of the Mikes at work?"

The point of my story is this. That's appalling. The part where someone doesn't know who Paul McCartney is. And the part where I had to look up how to spell "Mikhail."

Who, in your opinion, as opposed to you leaving a comment with somebody else's opinion, is someone everyone should know, no matter their age? Is it okay to not know who Uma Thurman is? What about Isadora Duncan?

Who in the present should we, as old people, know about that we may not? Like, are you aware of some musician or influencer that as old folk may be passing our generation by? Are we the grandpas sitting in the back of the room saying, "Who are those long-haired hippies on the Ed Sullivan?"

Is it annoying that I just said "influencer"? Let me know all this and more.

Wherefore art thou, rodeo?

Sometimes I feel like I'm the last blogger. Back in 2008, everybody had a freaking blog. Now it's crickets out there. And let's face it, I'm not really that stick-to-it kind of a gal. But here I still am. Officially unfashionable. And to that I say hooo care?

IMG_5687
Yuu no that Lu line.

That collar is preposterous. There is no less "Lu" collar than that one, with the pink bow. Really, if you asked her, she'd wish for a sensible brown. Tallulah is a total lesbian, the kind that wears Burt's Bees tinted lip blam, though.

I had a migraine yesterday and pretty much spent all of yesterday in this bed.

IMG_5683

I was occasionally joined by Nurses Lily and Iris, but usually they were over me and my head and were very busy sleeping on the couch or whatever.

IMG_5686

See what I did, there? I was doing a Lily impression. It's uncanny.

Having a migraine is not fun, in case you were wondering, "Is it a good time, having a migraine?" You can't read or watch a movie or anything, because it hurts to do those things. So mostly you have to lie there and wish to be deceased. And now today I have my post-migraine mop personality. In case you were wondering, "Is it fun to read June's post-migraine posts?"

IMG_5667

The night before I was felled by this migraine–and say "migraine" one more time–I went over to my friend the Tall Boy's, where we talked and watched baseball. I mean, the "we" on those may differ a tad from person to person. Boys always seem to watch baseball with the sound down, or is that just when I come over? Anyway, this is his cat, Cora, whom I have shown you before but not since, like, 2011. She is a half-a-face kitty. Don't tell my cats I was out gettin' some strange. Although as soon as I got home, Edsel knew.

Edsel. Knew.

Do you feel guilty when you get home and your pets sniff you obsessively and you know that they know you'd been headed for the cheatin' side of town? Because I've watched Edsel, for example, hurl himself at other humans like he'd never give me a second glance if they offered him a home. So I don't have to feel guilty, if you ask me.

IMG_0177
Finally, I got up yesterday and listlessly perused my old pictures, and I found this one I took at the movies, where they encouraged us to go see War Hourse.

100_1176
And I found a picture of a bitchy note I wrote to the gas company. You can click on it to read the full throttle of bitch. I pay online now. I'm less cranky that way, unless my password doesn't work. At this point, pretty much all my passwords are some iteration of fuck you. FuckYouGasCo, for example. If you wanted to break into my gas bill, now's your big opportunity.

IMG_0155
I also found this picture of Pal From MA and me, back on New Year's 2011 turning into 2012. We had no idea the year we were in for. But we were both newly separated, so we kind of figured it'd be interesting. What is that, a big plate of fries? Happy fat year!

Okay, my fine and delightful head and I are going to shower. Then I gotta figure out what to wear, because we're in that in-between stage where it's chilly as hell in the morning and then hot as Beelzebub's knapsack by noon. I have no idea why Beelzebub's knapsack would be hotter than anything else that resides in hell, but migraine.

Really, Beelzebub is the best name for the devil, but really all devil names are kind of hilarious. Old Pitch. That's a good one. Oh my god, migraine fog hat. I must go.

 

P.S. Do you know who else was likely a lesbian? Lady Elaine. A rosacea lesbian.

Lady

Where Ellen DeGeneres gets on 20-year-old skinny June

IMG_5664

My cousin Maria sent me this picture and I've never seen it before. I know from that nice perm that I am 20 years old there. This is the summer I met Marvin and he didn't like me. LOOK HOW HOT, despite the perm. Whatever, MARVIN. Plus, I had a kitten on my lap. What more could you ask for in a person?

Back when this picture was taken, my workout routine was wake up, microwave two hot dogs, then lie in the sun till 3:00. Then I'd have a sensible dinner of, like, Spaghetti-Os and maybe go to a movie. Someone hand me my sweatbands.

I never weighed myself, because why bother, but I know I went to the clinic on campus once (whattadya mean, birth control pills? Shut up) and the scale said either 113 or 118. Again, who cares which way those five pounds went on my 5'6" self? Goddammit.

IMG_5664 2

She also sent me this picture, and what says "glamour" harder than a backyard grill? What says "maniacal" harder than that expression?

I do not recall the dress, the shoes or that moment one iota. I have no idea what I was doing. At least the black-dress photo I recall the dress and shoes.

The point is, other than getting diagnosed with cancer, is there a way I could get back to 118 or 113 pounds, do you think? A time machine? Like, is it too late to develop an eating disorder?  Also, what became of that kitten? Did it have a good life?

Do you think Mother Teresa ever went around worrying about getting back to 118 pounds or whatever method they use for weighing in India? Don't you hate it when someone from England starts talking about however many stones they are? Oh, stop with the stones. You're in America. I mean, unless you aren't, but still with the stones. I have no idea what you mean.

I just looked it up. When I was that thin, I weighed 8 stone. You're welcome. I'm like Bridget Jones now. In fact, just the other night I literally watched a Bridget Jones movie while eating Ben and Jerry's right out the carton, making me officially a Cathy cartoon and also bringing us back to how is it I don't weigh 118.

I've given up on being 113 again, just while we've been talking. One hundred-thirteen pounds is also 8 stone, and what's the point of even having stones if you lose five pounds and it doesn't show up in your stone?

What would we say? Like, a 500-calorie-a-day diet? Is that sensible? Will that get me there? Speaking of weight and burning calories and so on, one of you told me about that gossip site, Crazy Days and Nights, which has MOST EXCELLENT gossip under "Blind Items Revealed," and the other day it had one on Tracy Anderson. Apparently she drops Gwyneth Paltrow's name all over the place and even mentions her during sex.

So you know what I would never do? Is mention Gwyneth Paltrow during sex. Oh, and it also said Ellen is CHEATING on that skinny little woman she married. Hey, I wonder how SHE stays so thin. Who was that asshole who dated Ellen before that, who claimed to be all gay except she wasn't before Ellen and then lo and behold when they broke up she liked men again? Who was that jerk? I never trusted her.

So, that's today's post, where we've covered my 20-year-old body with Ellen DeGeneres. Oh! And did you SEE where Bruce Jenner is not in support of gay marriage? He went on Ellen, where apparently everyone's going since she's a cheaty-pants, and acted all squirrely on the topic. "Well, if the word marriage is so important…"

I mean. Bruce Jenner. We're supposed to be ALL IN SUPPORT of your life and your less-than-traditional way you want to live it, and I AM, but you can't get behind gay people marrying? It seems like the height of hypocrisy. I was even gonna overlook the fact that you are way too old for that hairdo, but now it is ON, Bruce Jenner. It is on like my Bruce Jenner sweater. I did have a Bruce Jenner sweater, in high school, when I weighed around 113 pounds.

The CIRCLE of life.

Boom.

Your rotten personalities revealed

IMG_5620
It is almost 10 o'clock at night and I'm at work, still. I'll be here forever, I am not even kidding you, so I decided to tally and report your answers from the personality test I gave you while I'm waiting for more work to come.

So, if you weren't here yesterday, I gave a personality test. Go look at yesterday's post where I link to the damn test three freaking times. Say, did I mention my sparkling mood because I'm on hour 14 of work with no end in sight?

The point is, there are nine different personalities you could have.

The test also tells you what wings you are, apparently, which I guess is like having a rising sign or something. Right now I'm bitchy with an exhausted rising sign. I wonder if this post will even make sense?

I did not record what your damn wings were. I did, however, figure out how many of you were which personality minus your wings. Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings. Did I mention I wonder if this whole post is even gonna make sense?

My coworker who is also here all night took these nice shots. We aren't punchy at all. No, sir. Here are the nine personalities and the results from our taking the test.

Perfectionist
Type 1: The Reformer, the Idealist. 3% of you were this type. The reformer is principled, perfectionistic, self-controlled. Guess what type I am not.

IMG_5626
Type 2: The Helper, the Advocate. 15% of you were this type. Demonstrative, generous, people-pleasing.

The other stupid thing about this personality test is that each type had, like, 107 names for it. But as I said, there are nine personalities, and you should've gotten a number for your type, like you're a number two. heheheheheheheee. Hey, guess who is tired? So even though there are 47 names for number two, you're still nmber two. Every time I say that I giggle more.

Oh, and that's my tenant in the above photo, who also works here, and is also here all night. That's a piece of leftover bread I had from when they gave us dinner. What a helper I am.

IMG_5631
Type 3: The Achiever, The Professional. 4% of you were type 3. Success-oriented, pragmatic, driven, image-conscious. Guess what type I also am not.

IMG_5632
Type 4: The Bohemian, The Individualist. 13% of you were this type. Expressive, dramatic, self-absorbed, tempermental. Say, GUESS WHICH TYPE I AM!

IMG_5635
Type 5: The Investigator, The Iconoclast. 11% of you were this type. Perceptive, innovative, secretive.

In case you're wondering, Did June love herself while she thought up these poses? The answer is yes. So much, yes.

IMG_5640
Type 6: The Loyal Friend, The Loyal Skeptic, The Defender. A shocking 36% of you were this type. I wonder if it's because you're loyal. "Well, here I am again. Gotta read this blog. Cause I'm loyal." You know, my tenant and I look like a tarot card in this one. The bread one, too.

Anyway, this type is committed, security-oriented, engaging, responsible, and anxious.

Calm down.

IMG_5643
Type 7: The Enthusiast. 4% of you were this type, including Ned. This type is busy, fun-loving, scattered.

IMG_5649
Type 8: The Challenger, The Bear. Only 2% of you were this type, including my mother. You have to admit my tenant is really good at the mugging for the camera. Also, this is just the kind of landlady I am.

Type 8 is powerful, dominating, willful and confrontational. Go, mom. Now she's gonna yell at me.

IMG_5657
Type 9: The Peacemaker, The Dreamer, The Referee. 12% of you. This type is easygoing, self-effacing, and agreeable. I hope the owner of these flowers I stole off her desk to take this shot is a Type 9.

So there you have it! Your personality types revealed! Say, did I mention I'm still at work? And that it's the middle of the night? And that I'm tired? Why don't you Helpers come down here and work with me?

Dramatically,

June

Principled, Purposeful, Self-Controlled, and Perfectionistic – See more at: https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-descriptions/#sthash.5d5d2oGd.dpuf
Principled, Purposeful, Self-Controlled, and Perfectionistic – See more at: https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-1#sthash.il67OWTz.dpuf

What stupid, horrific personality do YOU have?

Today we're all gonna take a personality test and report the results here. I will tell you what you all said tomorrow. Please answer me by 9 p.m. Eastern time today.

Google "What time is it in Eastern time?" if you don't know what time Eastern time is.

Yesterday I got invited to a concert "at the railway" in my town, and never once in seven+  years of living here have I ever heard anyone referring to anywhere here as "at the railway," and I like how I'm just supposed to just know that locale in my bones or something. You know, that one spot where there are railroad tracks.

My personality type is Cranky.

Yesterday I was at the therapist's first, before Ned and even the therapist got there. I was in her lobby, and she had an enneagram book, which is this type of personality testing that's stupidly accurate. I already know what type I am, which I will tell you later, but I was reading it, and then she came in and we read further, and we were dying, it was so accurate.

She let us take the book home, and Ned and I read about HIS personality and died all over again. It was a very die-y day.

So now that I'm a zombie because I've died several times, you take it. Here: http://www.enneagramquiz.com/

When you return to this blog, TELL ME YOUR PERSONALITY FIRST before you comment. So, leave a comment saying, "Generalist. Lovely post, June."

That way tomorrow, when I tally the results, I won't want to kill my own self with a large gleaming knife. I won't have to slog through, "Sorry to hear your gerbil got loose, Sarah. You're in my thoughts. Lovely post, June. Oh, and I'm an Individualist, but if you ask me I'm more of a Peacemaker."

UPDATE: I am delighted to report that each enneagram type has several names. Which is a delight to keep track of, did I mention? So the dreamer is type 9, also known as peacemaker, also known as referee. If you guys are given a number with your result, as in you're a type 1 or a type 3 or whatever, tell me that first.

Now, if you're returning to leave a comment talking about something else, that's fine. But leave your personality result at the beginning of your comment if you're telling me your results. Thank you, and good luck.

I've done this test for you all before, but it was a long time ago and we have different readers with different personalities. So this'll be cool, I think. Or it'll be dull as mud and no one will play. Hey, where's my dry erase board? I could record your changes on it. But I think I threw that out when I moved. Crap.

Okay, take the quiz!

I've now linked to it three times in this post. "Where's the quiz, June? It might help if you sent us to the quiz, June. Oh, and I'm a Generalist."

P.S. OHMYGOD I FOUND the dry erase board!!

IMG_5591
NedKitty and Ned are the Dick personality type.

The one where June has too many pets

Last night, after work, one of the Alexes invited me to go to her apartment building to do yoga. I realize it's probably immoral to partake of free yoga when one does not pay rent to live in the building that gives you free yoga, but I'm a scofflaw.

"I'm leaving to do yoga," I said to my coworker Ryan. "Namamste." 6a00e54f9367fb883401bb07aea0e2970d-pi
"Namaste here and finish this up," he said, then smiled at the camera like he was Mr. Roper.

Bjf3wfbCUAA1Ena

That photo of Ryan is from last winter, when I ran into him at a screening of The Big Lebowski. He's having a white Russian, and probably burned the calories from it watching the movie. I hate not being 25.

Anyway, I screamed home and fed everyone and gave poor Tallulah her meds. She's finally off pain pills, so she doesn't lope around the house with dark glasses on like a movie star on a downward spiral. Then I screamed into some yoga clothes and started walking.

Alex doesn't live that far, maybe a 15-minute walk, and I was trying to get my steps in. Yes, I know I have a Fitbit problem. The guy who sits next to me already had a step intervention with me.

The point is, just as I was leaving my house, I heard, "Hey, girl, let me shout at you." It was that comedian Ryan again, trying to get home from work. He lives on the same street as me. Apparently yesterday he was on fire with the lines.

Then after that, I walked past a young guy who didn't SEEM crazy, but he said, "Hey!" as we crossed paths. "Wait up!" he said.

Oh, god. Was I about to be murdered and dragged through a field? I was on a busy road, so I doubted it. But what about that famous case in New York where the woman got murder-ered and no one helped? It was the opposite of Shake and Bake. "And weeee helped." Do you remember that stupid commercial?

Anyway, I kept walking and did not acknowledge the guy, and as I turned in to Alex's parking lot, he said, "Have a good night. Do you think I could call you sometime?"

I mean. It's tough when you have All This.

"No, you may not," I said to him, like the sexy school marm I am. "Have a good night, though." Because I understand wanting All This. Heaven knows I do.

It turns out, I didn't need to rush over there as fast as I did, because the class didn't start till 6:30. "Well, now we have awhile to kill," said Alex. "I got this small bottle of wine when I moved in here. You want some?"

I can't understand a person who'd have a teensy cute bottle of wine in their refridge for a month.

So, that's how I ended up going to yoga with a glass of wine in me, which is a first. The instructor looked oddly like me, and had I taken my purse down there Ida made her pose with me. She had total June hair and a total June nose, and the only difference was her utter ability to bend in every direction ever invented. That is where we had The Great Divide. Oh, and the fact that she wasn't drunk.

IMG_5600

Here I am, headed home from Alex's. I mean, you'd harass me, too, right? Can we all chip in so I can have eye surgery? Geez. With the eyelids.

Photo on 9-9-15 at 7.23 AM

What's sad? My hair's not that different after sleeping on it.

IMG_5606

Speaking of sleeping, I just noticed my whole immediate family on the bed. Cutest family portrait, ever. I wish the bedroom weren't so dark in the morning. I mean, lots of times it isn't, but today it looks rainy out and I'm trying to capture CUTEST FAMILY PORTRAIT, GOD. Geez.

Tallulah often seems suspicious.

I'd better get in the shower, so my hair looks normal for work.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh! Hah! That was a good one.

All right, I'm going. Oh, but say. Does anyone have any idea how long it takes for credit agencies to know what you're up to? Last month, on the 19th, I paid off a second credit card and I get this monthly credit report, and it's STILL NOT ON THERE that I've paid off that card, which annoys me. I DIDN'T DO IT FOR FUN.

Let me know, credit gurus.

Namaste,

June

ForgotTitle

When Ned and I weren't letting love lift us up where we belong this weekend, we were playing with an app. I know. We've turned into those people. We might as well get a leather sectional.

It's called Karen, and she's a life coach, and she's, you know, like a live person. Well, not really live, but she's real and you answer questions and she responds accordingly. Ned read about it in one of the many pretentious things he reads such as The New Yorker, or maybe he heard it on Nose in the Air on NPR. I forget.

Karen-app-promo

"Oh, it's time for me to talk to my app," he kept saying, and some British woman would chat with him and I'd get annoyed, wishing that app would get off Ned for god's sake. The app talks to you for awhile, and you answer a few questions about how you feel about life and so on, but then she says, "Come back later to finish this talk." I have no idea why. Then your phone will tell you you can open the app again at, say, 11:00 the next day.

I couldn't STAND it after awhile and got the damn thing on my own phone. Then I figured out I could go into my settings and tell my phone it was the next day at 11:00 so I could keep playing. I'm sure the fact that I cheated the system while Ned played along dutifully at the times he was assigned means something about us.

Anyway, it's been riveting. Let me know if you get it. I am not being paid for this. WHY AM I NEVER PAID FOR THIS?

Oh, and we also found a sex fantasies app. It's called UnderCovers, and you know what I'm tired of? You know what I'm NOT having a sex fantasy about? Is this new trend with all Internet-related objects to be called NounVerb. Or AdjectiveVerb. What I'm saying is, I'm sick of two words squished together and capitalized. StopIt.

Anyway, you sit there alone and tell it which fantasies work for you. And they aren't just fantasies, either, they're acts. Like, in case you wondered if I'm super into the idea of someone peeing on me, I am not. So I Xd off that one. NoPee.

Then, when I was done, I send a message to Ned, telling him to use this code and answer them all himself. What I get, then, are only the answers he likes and I like, none of the ones we both don't. BarryGibbFantasies.

"Did you say you wanted a hot one-night stand with a stranger?" I asked, perusing our matches. The annoying part is, unless you pay $2.99, you only get to see one of your matches a day. HighwayRobbery.

"Oh, nooooo," said stupid fucking Ned. "Of COURSE not."

I hate Ned.

I totally said yes to that one, too, by the way. But I wouldn't really do it because disease. Plus, have you ever slept with a stranger or relative stranger and had a good time? I'm a girl and have to be comfortable with the person first. Although once there was this bike messenger. BikeMessenger.

I was a receptionist at an accounting firm, (I totally sound like the Penthouse Forum right now) and you can imagine how I fit in. In Seattle, they had these bike messengers who'd ride around all day delivering papers and so on from office to office. I wonder if they're all out of a job now that there's email? That's sad, because I was 27 and looking at bike messengers all day and each and every one of them was hot, like soccer players or firemen.

Anyway, one time this guy came in to deliver something, and I can't even remember what he looked like anymore, although cute, I assure you cute. And I was SO ATTRACTED TO HIM I couldn't even function. I was leaving for lunch, so we rode the elevator down together, and it was all I could do not to attack him on the 34-floor ride down. HotRideDown.

I was determined to ask him out next time he delivered something, and he never came back. I wonder if he's balding and drunk and middle-aged now. He's probably one of those guys who move to Boulder and never grow up. He probably wakes and bakes.

So that's been my weekend, playing with apps. Ned got a NewComputer and had to put it all together, which did not at all involve the swears. Eventually, his nice brother came over and helped him. Ned's brother is a saint. Once we got into a discussion over who was the better brother, and I was all, Look. I'm dating you, but even I think your brother is the better brother.

10984088_10205795973967445_8777613593862315462_n

Also, I was gonna tell you today about my coworker's ridiculously funny Twitter page, and this whole post has been computer-centric, hasn't it? ComputerCentric. He mentioned it to me on one of our group walks at work, and I went back and perused it and did one of those laugh-so-hard-you-look-like-an-idiot things. Here are some of his tweets. I've become the sort of person who says, "tweets." That leather sectional should have liftable arms to store my wine coolers while I watch HGTV.

What I do on LinkedIn: sign in, accept invitation, scroll "people you may know," think "yes, I do know many of these people," sign out.

To get his eyes looking like they do, Benicio del Toro sleeps in a mask made of fire ants.

Check out this tersely worded letter: I

Did you know if you catch someone pronouncing La Croix "la kroy" instead of "la kwa" you can legally run them over in your Mercedes?

That last one was my fault. Austin, my {pretentious} coworker, brought a whole case of that water everyone and their dog's vagina is drinking, and Dear Austin: To tell you the truth, we were standing at the Anyone Can Take It Table when that case of La Croyyyyyuxxx water was in front of me, and I didn't know it was yours. So when I so boldly reached in and took one, I had no idea it was your personal stash.

Love, June La Crwaaa.

Croix-sparkling-water-berry-92138

I don't even feel bad, though, because have you guys tried this stuff? I expected to hate it, because rebel who'd never buy a leather couch or get a french pedicure, and OH MY GOD I bought a case this weekend. It's calorie free and migraine-causing free and it's StupidlyDelicious.

Anyway, my coworker's Twitter is funny. Is what I was trying to say.

God, this whole post was like Goop.

June and Ned Get High

The holiday weekend yawned before us with nary a plan, which was delightful news because we'd both had harrowing weeks at work. "I can't TELL you how happy I am to be home with nothing to do," Ned kept telling me all of Friday evening, thereby rendering him a big liar, or at least inaccurate. "I can't BEGIN to tell you."

I'd gotten home several hours before Ned had, as they usually let us out a little early before a holiday, and I love my job. That meant by the time Ned got home, I was well into watching various versions of A Star is Born. "Well, I watched an old one, and now I'm watching the new one," I explained to Ned, who wondered why Barbra Streisand was in his living room. And what's sad is that to me, a movie from 1976 is "new."

"An old version; you mean with Judy Garland?" asked Ned, who is clearly a closet homosexual.

"No, with that other actress."

"There's another version of A Star is Born that doesn't have Judy Garland or Barbra Streisand?" asked Ned, who, okay, maybe is straight after all.

You know how Ned couldn't TELL me how glad he was to be home? I can't TELL you how much Ned hated A Star is Born starring Barbra Streisand. Just this morning, he said, "I hated that movie so much that it's stuck with me. I can't stop thinking about it." Ned, who's dragged me to movies where cats get killed and an entire room full of people–AN ENTIRE ROOM–vomits apples onto a tarp. Oh, and once he took me to a movie where someone cut a prostitute clean across the face.

But Barbara Streisand singing Evergreen. That he can't shake.

That is why I said yes to Ned's suggestion that we look for a headboard yesterday. I felt I owed it to him after he had to watch Barbra jam out to Watch Closely Now. His bed has no headboard, and he's been wanting one for some time, so we headed to The World's Busiest Antique Store with The World's Fucked-Upidiest Parking Lot. On a Saturday. On a holiday weekend.

We had to cut several people clean across the face in order to get a parking spot, and then we had to wedge our way past every embroidered-sweatshirted old lady who's ever been born just to get into the place. It's this big warehouse of "consignment" items, which is supposed to convince you that you got a deal, except everything in there is just as expensive as brand-new stuff. But you know how Ned and I are. We like old.

We vomited apples on the heads of several shoppers so they'd get out of our way and we could get to the headboards, which were conveniently piled on top of each other so that you'd die in a headboard avalanche, which is a heroic way to go.

IMG_5560

I can't believe I captured Ned alone in that room. I swear to you every other second we were there was like we were in Disneyland. Our favorite thing we found was this:

IMG_5559

What do you think happened? Did he or she marry person number 8, or just get a new bed, or what? Am dying to know.

After defying death like we were Evil-Antique-Shopper Knevil or something, we finally found a headboard we liked. It was a huge four-poster bed, though, and not just a headboard. We debated it for awhile, but it was so pretty, and there was a Labor Day sale, so what the heck. We took the tag to the front counter.

"It'll be $60 for delivery," said the saleswoman, which pretty much negated the sale price. "We can deliver Wednesday at 10:30."

Oh! Wednesday at 10:30! How conveeeeenient! Because everyone's home then!

"Why don't we get one of the trucks from your work and bring it home ourselves?" I asked Ned, because I hate myself. And that is how we ended up going to his job, getting a huge old truck, schlepping the huge truck back to The World's Fucked-Upidest parking lot WHICH WAS SO FUCKING ANNOYING OH MY GOD I HATED THAT FUCKING NEVER-ENDING LOT WITH PEOPLE BACKING OUT AND ENTIRE FAMILIES STANDING UNMOVING WHILE PEOPLE TRIED TO BACK OUT AROUND THEM parking lot.

We schlepped the huge, old, heavy pieces into the truck, drove it home, parked horrifyingly on the narrow street in front of our house and I was CONVINCED someone was gonna smash into us as we were moving the furniture.

We then schlepped it all up the stairs to our porch, then up the stairs to our room, which took forever because TALL OH MY GOD TALL FOUR POSTERS TALL, and also HEAVY HOLY SHIT.

I was covered in sweat by the time we got all the pieces to the bedroom, where I tried to clean it all. "Why have you made it all slippery?" groused Ned, right around the time I discovered the tallest part of the posts came off.

"Goddammit," I said, holding about three feet of the bed in my hands.

"GodDAMMIT," agreed Ned, screwing the slippery heavy pieces of the bed together.

What had started out as a delightful afternoon of antique shopping like we were a couple of old queens ended up with us doing manual labor and swearing a lot. Finally, FINALLY, after a trip to Lowe's and a swearfest when Ned broke off one of the ornamental metal parts that's gonna require a soldering tool, FINALLY, we lifted the box springs up, and sweated and grunted and carried on till we got the mattress up there, too.

And that is when we discovered we had the tallest bed ever invented. The Princess and the Pea's bed was shorter. It's the Mount Everest of beds. Holy shit, that bed is tall.

IMG_5562

Tall. Not short, is what we've got in the bed department.

"What the fuck are we gonna do?" asked Ned, whose temper was much shorter than the bed. "I guess we can hire sherpas to get us into bed at night," I said, because let me tell you who was in hysterics. YOU'VE NEVER SEEN A BED SO TALL. In fact, if it's cloudy right now, you might not see us up there at all. Remember in the dorms, when some people made lofts? We totally have a four-poster loft.

"Have you tried addressing your nightstand?" I asked Ned, from my new perch high atop Greensboro. When I reach down to get anything, all the blood rushes to my face.

"How are we gonna have sex?" I worried. We're four inches from the ceiling fan now. One false move and we're decapitated. Talk about giving head.

Did you ever see Love, Actually? Remember that one couple who were stand-ins for dirty movies, and their whole part in the movie is scene after scene of them, fully dressed, pantomiming various sex acts? That was Ned and me last night. Can we do THIS without being decapitated? How about this? For some activities, Ned's gonna need Pinball Wizard shoes.

So that's my tall tale about our new bed, and I hate to be short with you. Hey, if you want to stay over, we have a tent you can pitch right under our bed.

At least I have somewhere new to store my suitcase.

From on high,

June

If Ned and Marvin got in a fight, who do you think would win?

Last night, I was still at work because HELLO BUSY when Ned emailed me. “I’m not going to the gym tonight; I’m coming straight home. Want to go out to dinner?”

I guess he read my blog yesterday. Now I feel bad. BUT THAT DAMN GYM!

I went home and there was Ned, which was exciting. It was like seeing a unicorn, with Ned being here before dark. “Where do you want to go?” he asked, knowing I’d say Filling Station, which he hates. “Filling Station,” I said.

Ned hung his head in agony. “Okay,” he sighed. He doesn’t like it there because they don’t serve anything healthy. I like it there because they don’t serve anything healthy. I get this turkey on a croissant? It has honey cream cheese and a thinly sliced green apple.

I just noticed I’d typed, “he signed,” instead he “he sighed,” like he was Marlee Matlin or something. But I fixed it, because I KNOW HOW YOU ALL LOVE TO POINT OUT MY MISTAKES IN TYPING THANKS NO REALLY THANKS.

Finally, we decided on the Mexican place, where Ned gets a fish taco, so to speak. I get taquitos. Right there is the difference between Ned and me. Ned was excited because they’d be showing his sporting event there. Did you know that there’s, like, literally one day a year that sports aren’t on? Did you know that all the other days, sports are on?

Our therapist suggested we get two TVs.

Anyway, as we were headed out, I got a bloop on my phone. Marvin Gardens was commenting on Pie on the Face, the Facebook page for people who read and abhor this blog. Oh my god, we have a new tag line.

I’m back! announced Marvin.

He’s back? He’s back from where?

“Marvin’s on Pie on the Face,” I said to Ned, then had to explain what Pie on the Face was, and given his deep interest in Facebook, I had to explain what Facebook was a little, too. “See, Ned, you can have private groups on Facebook.”

“You can?”

Yes, and you have to ask to join, and no one else can see it and so on.

Ned seemed unimpressed.

“And now, MARVIN’s on there.” I said.

Ned likes Marvin. I mean, they’ve met twice and barely talked both times, because Marvin’s band was always playing. But as you can imagine I have a million Marvin stories. The time Marvin changed his birthday on Facebook so everyone would say happy birthday to him.

The time he changed it again, later that same year.

The time my brother-in-law, who is shy, asked Marvin what to call my stepfather, who goes by Harry. “Call him Harold,” said Marvin, and my poor shy BIL went around calling him Harold for like six months.

Any time I tell a Marvin story, Ned laughs. “I think in different circumstances, Marvin and I would be friends,” he said. I guess it’s hard to be friends with the guy who’s tapping your ex-wife, although I don’t see why.

Anyway, Marvin got on PieFace and announced his triumphant return, which who even knew he was ever a MEMBER of Pie on the Face, and then he further announced he’d be having a question and answer period between 7 and 8 Eastern time.

Marvin will be here between 7 and 8 PM Eastern time to answer any questions you may have about his life, loves, and current whereabouts. Be sure to tune in!

About seven million of you gleefully participated.

“Marvin’s having a Q and A,” I said to Ned as we drove. “What the hell is he up to?”

I spent the whole dinner waiting for Ned to be interested in his dumb sports so I could surreptitiously glance at my phone.

If someone wants to start a Facebook event for this, be my guest, wrote Marvin, right before the big Q and A. Marvin. Good gravy.

Q: Is the Marvin Q & A going to be here on this thread or are we moving?

A. We’re coming over your place.
 
Q. Is it 7:00 yet?
 
A. Yes. Next question.
 
It went on like that for some time. People asked how many women he’s had since our breakup and he said nine, which, pfft. They asked if he missed the dogs and he said “one of them,” and poor Edsel. “Edsel’s a dick,” said Ned, when I read him the answer, and right as I did, Marvin wrote, “Edsel’s a dick.”
 
Q. Ginger or Maryann?
A. Ginger on Maryann.
 
“I’m using that answer from now on,” said Ned.
 
So, that was our entertainment while we ate, and I guess Marvin’s on PieFace now, so it’s like Pie on the Face, Extreme or something.
 
Oh, and I have some good news for you.
 
Photo on 9-3-15 at 6.00 PM Photo on 9-3-15 at 6.03 PM #2 Photo on 9-3-15 at 6.04 PM #2

TA DAAAAA! I put the suitcase away, and also that pink sweater that’d apparently been hiding under said suitcase. Am amazing. I also helped Ned make the bed in our room this morning.

 
“I’m coming in to help you make the bed!” I announced. I’d burst in with my arms wide, all announce-y.
 
“Why?”
 
“Because I’m a magnificent girlfriend!” I said, still holding my arms wide. Ned came over and kissed me. “You are.”
 
Then a second later: “But really, why?”
 
I guess Ned thinks I have an ulterior motive.
 
Have a good weekend of remembering Labor! I can’t wait to sit down and watch the entire Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon! I got my popcorn, I got my–

What? When did THAT happen?

Crap.